The Man With Silver Eyes
by DeathFrisbee221
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has fallen, both from a building and the public eye. He now keeps to the streets and the shadows, masked by his own Homeless Network. But when one innocent Nathalie Cross happens to stumble across his secret, things get a little more interesting...
1. Chapter 1

"Here you go." A smiling woman passed me a scalding cup of coffee, and I clutched it gratefully. The heat seared my hands and the steam coming from it made my eyes water, but I hugged it with cupped hands, breathing in the heat and closing my eyes in bliss.

"Thanks," I grinned, turning away to sit on a nearby bench. The woman continued to watch me, her smile fading when she thought I couldn't see. She went to tap the woman beside her, and whispered something urgently in her ear, nodding her head in my general direction as if it was less conspicuous than holding up a sign saying _I'm talking about you_. Which it wasn't.

The lady next to her shrugged and whispered something back, hurriedly pulling a smile on to serve a hobbling old man a steaming cup of soup. The coffee woman had a sort of horrified look on her face, her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide. I recognized that look - I'd seen it many times when helpers had realised that there were kids on the streets too.

At the sight of me watching, she quickly smiled innocently with big white teeth in that annoyingly patronising way that adults do, as if I were only about five, and had witnessed none of the previous conversation. Which I had, albeit reluctantly. The only clue left of her conversation was the pity brimming in her eyes as she watched me.

I turned away in barely disguised disgust. I didn't want her pity. I didn't want anyone's pity. I could feel her piercing blue eyes boring a hole in the back of my head, and I ignored it with practiced nonchalance, taking a swig of coffee. It was sweet and hot, sharp on my tongue, and burned its way down to my stomach. I grimaced a little, but took another searing mouthful. Hot and sweet. Just how I liked it.

Next to me, a bloke in a misshapen woollen hat snored, an empty bottle of beer swinging from one hand like a teddy bear from a toddler's fist. I knew him. Old Jack we called him. Or some of us behind his back, Drunk Jack. A gambler who'd lost everything he had on a foolish bet, and had been tossed out onto the harsh streets of London where he'd fallen to drink to drown his sorrows. He was one of the rest of us, someone who'd lost everything, or couldn't find a decent job, and suddenly the rest of society had ganged up on us and chucked us out like garbage into a landfill; some pit where they could forget about us and avoid us at all costs.

Around me, other homeless people drank from cups of soup or tea, all huddled up in thick coats and blankets against the biting February wind. Queues of people waited patiently for a hot drink from the lines of tables and smiling volunteers.

I bit back a scream of frustration. They thought they helped but they didn't. I appreciated the drinks, but what I couldn't stand was the sympathy, the sad looks when they thought my back was turned, the furtive whispering that stopped as soon as the next person came up for their fill. I didn't want anyone's sympathy or pity, because around here, it didn't hep. It just made you feel helpless and worthless, and threatened to bring back the emotions from where I'd carefully buried them in my chest away from the rest of the world. It's why I liked to hang around for a bit before silently vanishing around a street corner or down an alley in the blink of an eye, out of sight. A shadow amongst shadows.

I shuffled further into my jacket, scrunching my chin under the collar, and pulled the hood up over my eyes in a desperate attempt to stay warm. In the background, cars charged along roads, and herds of tourists shuffled along the pavement, before being corralled into the nearest shop by an impatient guide. Windows glinted warm amber, and inside I could see people happily chatting and browsing shelves. The sky was an overwhelming shade of iron grey. The clouds hung forbiddingly over the damp grass and dull skyscrapers like the dust kicked up from a horse or a transit van, threatening sharp bullets of rain. I prayed the weather would hold off, just enough so I could get undercover.

Peering at the sky, I decided I wouldn't chance it, and stood up, stretching stiff muscles and hauling my rucksack over my shoulder. I strode out along the path, hands shoved deep into pockets and my eyes fixed on the damp tarmac, my battered walking boots, the trails of trodden grass and ploughed mud through the turf from push-chairs and exploring children. _Size three,_ I noted aimlessly as I noticed a single firm footprint marked out in the grass, as clear as a thumbprint on glass.

"...Are you sure you're not him?" I caught a snippet of conversation as I trawled past the tables laden with coffee machines. The coffee lady was pouring another cup of coffee, a confused look on her face with a wrinkled forehead and furrowed eyebrows. I subconsciously compared her to a dog, although the big difference was that she stuck her nose into other people's business, instead of their private parts.

"Perfectly thank you." The coffee lady was evidently getting very nosy judging the stranger's annoyed tone. Yet she continued to persist.

"I'm sure you are. You look just like him, only you don't have the coat, or the deerstalker."

"You must be mistaken. Either way, I'd very much like to drink this cup of this very cheap instant coffee by myself if you don't mind." The man's obvious jibe turned her face bright red, and she stood with her mouth slightly ajar as if to say something clever, before hastily deciding against it and turning away to refill the coffee pot.

"Thank you so very much," the man muttered. I heard his thick shoes as they trudged down the soggy tarmac path, louder and louder as he got nearer. I looked up as he brushed past, and caught an impression of a striking pair of grey eyes, cold and piercing that seemed to see right through my own eyes and into my head. It was as if he'd effortlessly flicked through my thoughts as if they were the pages of a scrapbook, feelings and memories pinned helplessly onto pages to be scrutinized by mere strangers.

Then he was gone, and I shivered slightly, but not from the cold.

What did that woman mean about a deerstalker? Clearly she must've seen him before. My brain slowly chuntered into gear as reluctantly as a beaten-up car, but I still couldn't make it out. So she'd seen him before, but obviously in a different get up, so perhaps she'd seen him before he'd landed himself on the street. But a deerstalker? Around London? London was a stylish place, and wearing a deerstalker down somewhere like Regent Street would be suicide. Maybe he used to be on TV? Possible…

I shook myself clear of my dilemma. Why did I even care anyway? He was just a guy who'd been tossed out like the rest of us. I sank even deeper into my coat and picked up the pace so that I was jogging.

The clouds had finally broken, and wept tears over the gloomy landscape. I ploughed forwards, keen to reach shelter. A few others, who'd seemed to have the same idea as me, walked silently a few feet behind, eventually breaking off in their own separate directions, leaving me alone.

The rain was cold and pricked my face viciously, driving in great undulating sheets that battered the grass into thick, oily mud and pounded at the pavement. But when I left the park, exchanged the wide-open expanse of grass for great towering buildings of concrete, it seemed to lessen a little. Its fall was less like a shower of shrapnel and more like soft handfuls of confetti.

The city was softly lit and glowing already against the approaching night, and despite the wet, people still traipsed past shops and houses and cafes, shouting and laughing and lugging heavy shopping bags. Rickshaws wove through the chaos and continued to wait patiently by the sides of the roads, with the additions of small brightly coloured umbrellas.

London was usually beautiful, but at this very moment, it was ethereal. Every raindrop was illuminated in a kaleidoscope of shimmering colours on windows or the shining exteriors of beetling taxis, and liquid gold rather than water dripped from every surface. Refracted, swirling colours were painted on the pavement and on shop windows, wondrous colours that seeped into my skin and flashed on my eyelashes.

I smiled, and in the light my teeth were stained blue. I guess I liked it here. Loved it even. Loved the tireless drive that people seemed to have that pushed the city forwards through every night into the sunshine. Even then, London wasn't quite so fun when you didn't have a penny to your name and smelled like a gutter.

I put down my head and trudged along the pavement, weaving through the hoards of people and ignoring their pointed stares, before ducking down an alley into compete darkness. I tiptoed forwards blindly, fingertips stretched out in order to stop me from stumbling over a recycling bin (I've done that before). Eventually the blackness thinned, and I could see where I was going.

I emerged on the other side, and took a right turning before squeezing back into another side passage, only this time the street I came out on was quieter. More houses rather than shops - I was on the right track.

Suddenly, a pair of eyes loomed out of the dark, and I cried out in shock, backing away. A second longer, and I laughed in relief. It was a crumpled up newspaper on the pavement, and the eyes I'd seen were from a picture on the cover, only glittering because it was damp with rain.

I frowned and picked it up, squinting at it in a chink of light from a nearby window. It was an odd picture to have on the cover of a newspaper; I definitely wouldn't have chosen it. It was a profile of a man, his face lit up deathly pale from the flash of a camera, slightly blurred as if the photographer had only just been able to press the shutter. The collar of a thick black coat had been swung up to hide his features, but the cameraman had still managed to catch his face and pin it to paper. Pale, grey eyes regarded the camera with calm distain from under the brim of a hat that had been crammed down onto his head, so that his curly hair flared out from underneath.

The headline read in imposing, solemn letters: _Sherlock Holmes: internet phenomenon_.

The hat in question was an odd looking thing, an old fashioned garment made of tweed, with earflaps suspended above the head. I scanned the article curiously, the rain forgotten. A section caught my eye: _Sherlock Holmes, frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson, has caught the attention of London after the successful recovery of Turner's masterpiece, _The Fall of the Reichenbach_. The detective was first seen in his famous combination of a deerstalker and overcoat at the case popularly referred to by fans as "The Navel Treatment", and ever since has been successfully cracking crimes across the city…_

It was a deerstalker. Suddenly everything clicked into place. That man. The mention of the deerstalker. The grey eyes. He was Sherlock Holmes. Why that mattered was something I'd figure out later, but I revelled in the moment. I looked back down at the paper. It was old, the date some three months ago. I turned to a nearby bin and rummaged around in hopes of a newer edition.

My luck held out, and another paper surfaced, this time only about three days old. He was still on the cover, only this time it was a different picture, a full body shot. He was in an expensive suit with a thick black coat slung casually over the top, the collar thrown up dramatically around his throat. The deerstalker was gone, and his hair fell in wild curls over his forehead. His eyes were fixed on a point above the camera, and he looked pointedly bored, like a child who'd been made to go to a museum or an art gallery when they'd much prefer a zoo. A man stood stiffly next to him, casually dressed unlike his companion, with thin greying hair, and blue eyes. His mouth was pressed into a forced smile. He obviously didn't want to be there either. Was that John Watson? A family was gathered near them: a mother, a father and a young boy, all smiles and laughter. The caption read _Boffin Sherlock Holmes and his companion Dr John Watson after the rescue of Sir Thomas Black_. The headline however was another story.

_ Sherlock Holmes dead_ screamed the paper. The article read on to say how he'd been found dead outside St Bartholomew's Hospital. Witnesses said that he committed suicide by jumping off the roof. It turned out that he'd been a fraud. He'd faked all of his cases, and once he had been discovered, the pressure must've been too much.

But that left me with a problem. Because I'd seen him _today_.

So was he actually dead?


	2. Chapter 2

I was back at the park the next day, grimly waiting to see if he'd come back, and also for more free coffee. The sky burned blue overhead, but the wind still bit with the needle teeth of a young puppy and I was glad I'd brought my jacket. My hands blushed red with cold, and I wrapped them greedily around my mug of coffee, soaking up the warmth. My eyes were fixed on the coffee stand, where volunteers muttered sympathetically and handed out hot beverages with wide smiles.

I wasn't sure why I needed to see him. In fact I was getting mixed up in something that a) I was completely clueless about, and b) could be dangerous, or c) both. This man evidently had something to hide if he'd go as far as faking his own death.

A shift of movement caught my eye, the movement of someone who didn't want to be seen. A figure huddled in a ripped coat and baggy trousers shuffled through clusters of people, head down, hands in pockets like everyone else. But he stuck to the fringes of the crowd. That was his mistake. Everyone knew it was safer closer to the centre - we all looked out for each other, and it was warmer. Also the coffee table was in the middle, and those closest to the table of hot drinks were guaranteed to get their fair share. Something I'd learned on my first day. Out on the edges, it was colder, with no shelter from brisk winds, and we were more at risk from jeers and hoots, and the occasional projectile if we were unlucky. When I was new to this, I'd had the misfortune to get whacked in the face by a wooden clothes hanger. I still had the scar.

"Gotcha," I muttered, slipping out of my seat. I gulped my coffee as quickly as possible, swearing under my breath as it scalded my tongue and the back of my throat. If he was watching me, and was a proper detective, he'd know I was acting, but it couldn't be helped. I ambled over to a bin, tossed the cup in, and then made my way to a queue, squeezing in just after he did.

I couldn't be sure. It might not be him. But I had to know. This thing had me by the throat, and was getting tighter and tighter.

I tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me?"

He turned around, and I met the fierce gaze of two grey eyes. "What do you want?" His voice came out muffled by a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face.

I leaned in. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?" I enquired casually.

His eyes remained fixed on me, cold, emotionless. Then his eyebrows suddenly twisted up in confusion. "I don't know what you mean." He sounded hurt, like he was about to burst into tears. His accent had changed too. It was a exceedingly bad attempt at a strong Scottish accent.

I was caught by surprise for a moment, before I heard the accent. That was when his disguise fell to pieces. I rolled my eyes. "Please. I know a false Scottish accent when I hear one."

His face fell back to an emotionless mask, and the accent vanished. "Impressive. For an idiot."

"Thanks." I'd never met him, but I already knew his main trait was arrogance.

A trace of surprise flickered in his eyes. He'd expected a rise out of me, expected me to take the bait. I felt warm with smugness.

"You're still supposed to be dead," I said.

He pulled the scarf down, revealing the rest of his face. It was definitely him; there was no mistaking the angular cheekbones, the disdainful twist of his lips. "You read the newspapers I suppose."

"Yes," I said, surprised.

He sighed. "Of course you have. Everyone has."

By that time we were at the front of the queue, so we collected our coffee. He began to walk off, away from me.

"Wait!" I didn't know what I was expecting. An explanation?

He turned, annoyed. "What do you want? To know how I did it? To know if I'm a fraud? Some proof that you can go running off to the papers with?"

"I don't know." It came out so easily. "I only just heard of you yesterday. When I saw you. When I read some old newspapers. I'm just curious."

"Of course you are," he said bitterly. "Everyone always is." "Curiosity kind of your job," I countered.

"Curiosity _is_ kind of your job," I countered.

He looked peeved that I'd come up with an answer. "Well, I did say curiosity comes to everyone. And I am _one_, much as I loathe to admit it."

"Well why are you here then, in London? Someone will recognise you." I smirked. "In fact, I did."

"I like London. Anyway, that's the genius of my disguise." He tapped his coat. "No one looks too closely at a homeless person, out of discomfort and embarrassment. No one likes to be reminded of poverty."

"That woman got pretty close to recognizing you."

"Oh, you saw that. She got close, but that doesn't mean she struck gold."

There was a moment's pause.

"Where are you staying?"

He looked a little confused, just a flicker in the eyes that was reflected in the slight wrinkling of his brow. "Sorry?"

"Where are you staying? Because you can't have been sleeping rough. You'll have a house somewhere, or a friend…"

"What makes you say that?" He raised an eyebrow in a contemptuous challenge.

"You don't smell." He scowled.

He scowled.

"Hey, just because I've learned a trick or two," I said indignantly. "You have to learn how to read people if you want to survive on the streets of London. Know who to avoid, and who _definitely_ to avoid. Know who'll spare a few coins, and who will willingly give a five-pound note if you beg in just the right tone of voice. Which cafes will most certainly call the police if you loiter around their front, or back door. Which figure lurking in the shadows might have a switchblade smuggled up their sleeve, and know how to handle it."

He snorted, unimpressed. "That's basic common sense."

"Fine. Whatever." His arrogance was really beginning to grate my nerves. Eventually, they'd start to snap, and make a hole in my overall blanket of indifference. "But you are staying somewhere."

He sighed. "If you must know, I'm staying with a friend. Well, I say friend…"

"They'd have to be a very good friend if they could live with your frankly astoundingly-huge attitude."

He grimaced a little. "She has developed something akin to an infatuation with me."

"Well no wonder she lets you stay with her." I grinned in amusement about how clueless this guy seemed to be.

"What do you mean?"

I stared at him, eyebrows furrowed in evident confusion. His eyes fought to grasp my meaning from my own.

I choked down a giggle. "Isn't it obvious? She's probably… y' know… trying to get into your pants?"

Horror ghosted across his face as he struggled for words, possibly for the first time in his life. "Don't be so vulgar," he finally snapped.

"Don't be so _British_," I retorted. And then, after a brief afterthought, "or childish."

"That's pretty rich coming from an actual child." He drew himself up. "Molly and I are co-workers. I merely needed her assistance for my… trick."

"So go on. How did you do it? How would you even go about surviving a several storey fall?"

He seemed to consider for a moment, teetering on the possibility of actually giving me an answer. I attempted to keep my face straight. It wasn't like this was a moment I'd been anticipating; in fact I could barely wait for my second cup of coffee. But talking to this Sherlock Holmes, it had opened a window, through which I could glimpse a new world, not necessarily better, but definitely a whole lot more exciting, lurking under the bright plastic exterior of London.

His face broke into a sly smile. "A little sleight of hand," he chuckled, before turning on his heel and striding off briskly.

"Oh come on!" I called out in frustration. "That's all you're going to give me? Seriously?"

He twisted back around, still chuckling dryly. "I didn't know you cared so much."

"Well, I do." If I thought my remark was going to get me anywhere, I was sorely mistaken. He just laughed quietly to himself.

Then he said, "Ask around. Bring up Sherlock Holmes a little more. Maybe that'll give you some answers." And with that he strode away, coat flapping behind him as his legs ate up the pavement. I thought I heard him call "Laters!" over his shoulder, but it was so faint that I couldn't even be sure that it wasn't the product of an overactive imagination.

I was left standing alone on the crisp grass, coat pulled up around my chin, hands shoved deep in my pockets. Eyes hovering on the spot where he'd just been standing. Two large indents left in the grass were all that was left.

I didn't know why I cared so much; the sudden flow of disappointment unnerved me so that I didn't even want to know. Instead, I shook myself from my reverie with a shudder, and made my way across the grass for another cup of coffee.


	3. Chapter 3

I didn't see Sherlock Holmes again for a very long time. In fact, I completely forgot him and how he'd apparently risen from the dead. Perhaps my brain had just eventually rejected him as the ghost of a caffeine-deprived mind. Maybe because thinking about him made me feel funny. Not romantically or anything stupid like that, but apprehensive, or that nervous sort of excitement you get before doing something really stupid or dangerous. Or both.

I did do what he asked. Threw his name around a bit and hoped for a bite, but no one seemed to recognise him, or at least not when I was around.

In the end, I just gave up. He'd vanished completely, swallowed up by the city. Perhaps he'd taken my advice and left for somewhere quieter where no one would look twice at his face. Either way, there were more important things for me to do - I didn't have time to sit and daydream, I had to work hard to stay alive; to get first servings at the soup kitchens; to watch my back; to guard my few, actually pretty useful possessions from thieves with keen eyes and swift fingers.

Six months had passed when I found myself on a street corner in the blinding August sunshine, calling out piteously for passers-by to spare me some change. I'd gotten lucky today; an exceedingly pathetic whisper of "any change?" had earned me a pat on the head and a five-pound note pressed into my palm, although I didn't appreciate being patted like a stray dog. The crisp paper on my skin reminded me that there would be a hot package of chips for tea tonight.

A shadow fell overhead as I dreamed about hot grease and dollops of ketchup, and a gravelly voice asked, "how much?"

"Sorry?" I squinted up into a sharp, pale face with intense grey eyes that met my bewildered gaze with something like amusement. A bell rang dully in the back of my mind. Where had I seen him before?

"Sorry, have we met?" I struggled to my feet as I continued to try and place his face in my memory. It was the eyes, I was sure of it. Those fierce cold eyes that burned with such intelligence, and how they made me feel so vulnerable…

He tutted. "Surely I didn't leave you with such a fleeting impression?"

"Well it has been six months." The words came out automatically as his identity f finally clicked into its remembered slot. "Sherlock Holmes?"

He nodded. "You've been counting."

"_You_ owe me an apology and an explanation."

He looked hurt. "An apology? What for?"

"For being so unforgivably rude."

"Well I can't help it if you find my personality a little abrasive. You get used to it after a while."

"Hmph." That I highly doubted. My eyes fell on his clothes: an expensive suit, polished shoes, and a huge black trench coat that seemed to swallow him up, the one from the photographs. "You're not masquerading as homeless anymore?"

"No."

"So everything's been sorted out I assume. That whole business of you throwing yourself off a building."

"Yes."

"How?"

He rolled his eyes. "You're still going on about that?"

"Well no one gave me any answers. They all went clam-faced as soon as I brought you into the conversation."

"That's probably my fault. Sorry. I pay a lot of your sort to run errands and find information for me. I also buy their silence on such matters."

"Sorry?"

"Homeless network. Invaluable."

Homeless network. Right.

"You still haven't explained."

He huffed in annoyance. "People, all the same. Look, it's a very long complicated story, which you would most probably not understand a word of, so I'll just say I had hired help, a plan, and a ride. Alright?"

That was hardly enough to enlighten me, but I had a feeling that was all he was going to give away freely, so I nodded reluctantly.

"Sherlock!" A man came puffing up to us through the crowd, then stopped short suddenly, looking back between me and Sherlock uncertainly. "Sherlock…?" he queried.

I eyed him up. Thin greying hair and blue eyes, and a haggard face that looked like it had been through a lot of pain. Somehow, he seemed familiar too…

"Oh, this is John Watson, a friend of mine. John, this is… someone I know."

"I do have a name you know. Nathalie," I said pointedly. So that was it. John Watson, the other man from the photograph. He seemed to look older and more tired than I recalled, but then I remembered Sherlock's stunt and no doubt how much stress it might have caused friends and family.

"Problem?" Sherlock said airily.

"Yeah, a bit. Lestrade is livid that you've run off with that triple kidnapping," John said.

"Well I was bored, and someone was being delightfully interesting. How was I supposed to leave it alone?" he pouted sulkily. "I haven't been on a case like this since that Hound. Now _that_ was a case," he grinned.

"I'll say," John chuckled quietly. "Either way, we've been summoned to the station on threat of charging you with fraud."

Sherlock grimaced. "He found out I pinched his ID card again, didn't he?"

"Yep."

"I knew he'd ratted me out. Better go then. Could you get a taxi?"

John muttered something incoherent and probably including several choice cusses, but wandered down the road in search of an empty taxi willing to give a lift. No mean feat.

What a brave man.

"So you're back to solving mysteries then," I jibed.

"Murders rather than mysteries, but yes." He sighed heavily. "Good to be back. I almost went insane locked up in Molly's dingy little flat."

"Did you two hit it off then?" I waggled my eyebrows suggestively.

"I see you haven't lost your primitive sense of humour."

"And you your eight-foot ego."

"Touché." He fumbled in his coat pocket for a moment, before pulling out a twenty-pound note, which he casually proffered in my direction. "Have some change. On me."

"That's not change."

"Do you want it or not?"

I hastily snatched it and shoved in my pocket. Twenty pounds! There would definitely be chips tonight, and possibly a kebab, or a burger.

"Do me a favour," he said. "See what you can find out about the Nightmare."

"What nightmare?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, no, no. Not _a_ nightmare, _the_ Nightmare. A world-renowned assassin. I have a theory he's back in London, probably lying low somewhere."

"Well I'll certainly sleep well tonight," I mumbled nervously.

"Don't ask outright, that'll only attract attention. Be subtle, listen to the whispers and rumours that people share at night."

"And how will I even relay these 'whispers'?"

He winked. "I'm very easy to find. 221B Baker Street, but _only_ if you're desperate. Can't have criminal networks finding out about my sources."

"Sherlock!" John had found a taxi. He gesticulated wildly for Sherlock to hurry up before the taxi driver got bored and drove off.

"Bye." Sherlock turned away, black trench coat sweeping around his ankles sinisterly. It seemed strangely reminiscent of the last time we parted ways.

"So what, am I now part of your 'homeless network' then?" I called.

"Everyone is. You're just one of the few who know about it." He raised a gloved hand in farewell before the taxi swallowed him up and drove away, weaving back into the herds of traffic that plodded through London's sprawling metropolis.

The Nightmare. Right. That funny twisting feeling in the pit of my stomach was back, only this time stronger than ever. If I took this thing on, my life would get twice as scary and dangerous as usual. And there would be no going back. But I'd caught a glimpse of Sherlock Holmes' world, just one tantalising peek, and I knew that there was no way I would refuse this offer. And he might continue to pay me, which would be a huge result.

I brushed the edges of the notes in my pocket, a private grin growing slowly across my face. The feel of paper on my skin reminded me that I was done for the day – I wasn't going to squat on the street corner into the early evening if I could help it. I shouldered my bag, and headed off round the corner to the nearest shop that sold proper cups of coffee, and possibly some pastries if I could spare the change. The sun beat down on my shoulders, and lit the world up around me in a wondrous golden glow.

This was only the beginning of my associations with Sherlock Holmes.

And things were about to change forever.

**And I'm done! Phew, this took a while to round off, as I got stuck on the ending for ages. I'd be really grateful if you took the time to write a review! And, well, just thanks for reading! **


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